Serendipity
by GottaGoBuyCheese
Summary: Chasing impossible dreams is a lot easier when you have a friend just has crazy as you are. In the case of Shinsou and Midoriya, that mutual craziness might just be what it takes to get them into the U.A. Department of Heroics, but it won't be easy. Chance encounters, heavy secrets, and suppressed feelings will make for a tumultuous journey, but isn't that what friendship's about?
1. Chapter 1

This is how it started: a bag of groceries in one hand, an unremarkable rock in the other, and the burning, reckless bravery that comes with forty-three sleepless hours.

It's funny, he thinks, that it should end this way too. Only it won't, will it? Because his groceries are spilled across the ground, the rock is no longer in his hand, and forty-three hours has dialed up to fifty-eight.

He would laugh, if only he weren't pinned to the ground by a slimy purple tentacle wrapped around his neck. Actually, scratch that, he's already laughing. Of course. Of _course_ he's only in this mess because his aim is too fucking _precise_.

What a fucking joke.

The villain doesn't seem to share his sense of humor, because the tentacle only squeezes his neck tighter. Black spots dance in his vision, and he can only just make out the gleaming hatred in his attacker's iridescent eyes. Can only just recognize the swollen, mottled jaw from this morning, where rock #1 had provided enough of a distraction to escape with the villain's original would-be victim. Mere inches below it, smack dab in the middle of the throat, is the impact site for rock #2, where a spectacular bruise is already beginning to bloom around a bloody gash.

It also happens to be the site of his greatest, most idiotic failure to date.

(He can see the headstone now: _Here lies Shinsou Hitoshi, age 14. Murdered by some half-octopus villain because he accidentally rendered his own quirk useless by taking out the person's voice. He will be remembered for his supreme idiocy, always. May he rest in fucking pieces._ )

The villain seems to be trying to communicate their fury through eyes alone, but Hitoshi can't be bothered to pay attention. He pictured his end more heroic than this, maybe pushing someone out of the path of a runaway truck, or holding off an insanely powerful villain until the heroes could arrive.

Not in a narrow backstreet on his way home from doing groceries. Not because he just happened to bust someone's throat twice in the same day.

He lets his eyes close as the hopelessness of his situation washes over him, and thinks briefly, guiltily, of a small apartment three blocks from here. Of a short, grey-haired woman with kind eyes and a mean left hook, cradling a plump grey cat whose only ambition in life is to receive chin scratches and sleep in his desk drawer.

He thinks of a boy with bright green eyes and hair to match, whose freckled face splits into a wide grin every time they manage to meet up.

He thinks of these things and realizes: I'm going to die here.

A fresh wave of terror sweeps over him, and his hands claw frantically at the appendage around his throat. His lungs are on fire, and his head feels like it's going to explode. Though his eyes are closed, a different kind of darkness tugs at the edges of his vision, and all he can get out is a single, choked, " _Stop._ "

 _Don't you dare die here, you fucker, don't you_ dare _. Don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you —_

He must have blacked out, because the next thing he's aware of is someone shaking his shoulder with an urgency he can't comprehend, saying words he can't understand. He cracks his eyes open and wonders, briefly, why he fell asleep on the ground in his school uniform, and why this unkempt stranger is so insistent that he wake up. It's only when he recognizes the yellow slitted goggles shielding the man's eyes and the bands of silver fabric draped loosely around his neck that the events of the past several minutes come rushing back to him. His eyes fly open, and he jerks upright, gasping —

— and immediately breaks into the worst coughing fit of his life.

A hand rubs his back steadily as he hacks his lungs out, throat burning and eyes watering. When he finally catches his breath, he looks around to find his savior, certain he's either dreaming or dead.

Because there's just no way. There's _no way_ that, of all the heroes who could've been patrolling the area at this hour, it's _Eraserhead_ who just happened to stumble upon him in his moment of need. Even as underground heroes go, Eraserhead is more elusive than most. Barring a few major incidents, the media hasn't caught hide nor hair of him since his debut nearly a decade ago. The fact that Hitoshi should stumble upon him by mere chance is practically impossible.

And yet, impossibly, there he is, mere feet away tying up the cephalopodic villain. Hitoshi can't help but stare as he binds the villain as easily as one might tie their shoe. He doesn't even realize he's still staring until Eraserhead is crouched next to him again, hand on his shoulder, asking if he's all right.

His brain short-circuits a little bit at that, and he tries to stammer out a response, but every attempt to speak turns into more coughing, so in the end he just settles for nodding weakly. Eraserhead doesn't seem quite satisfied with that, though, because he adjusts his position so he's kneeling in front of Hitoshi. As Hitoshi tries vainly to convince himself this is real, Eraserhead removes his goggles, revealing two tired, bloodshot eyes.

"What's your name, kid?" Eraserhead is saying. "Is there someone you want me to call?"

This is really happening. Holy shit, Eraserhead is _talking_ to him. Eraserhead is talking to _him_. _Eraserhead_ is —

"N-no," he manages hoarsely, rubbing his throat, "that's okay." God, it feels like he swallowed a bowlful of nails. Sounds like it, too. Grimacing, he says, "My name — my name is Shinsou. Shinsou Hitoshi. Uh, thanks — thanks for, um," and then his voice gives out, so he jerks his head toward the unconscious villain.

Eraserhead snorts, the tautness of his mouth easing just a bit. "That's sort of my job, but you're welcome." Standing up, he says, "Though honestly, there wasn't much left for me to do; a bit longer and they would have been down for the count anyway." He pauses, then, eyeing Hitoshi with an expression he can't quite place. "You did well holding your own against a villain like that, especially without a quirk, but next time, leave the fighting to trained professionals." He puts his goggles back on and heads toward the villain, hefting the prone figure over his shoulder like a sack of amorphous potatoes. So cool. "It should go without saying that you were incredibly lucky tonight. Don't rely on it."

He recognizes a rebuke when he hears one, but that doesn't stop the warm, elated glow bubbling up inside him, or the tentative smile creeping across his face. "Y-yeah," he says, "I won't, sir, I promise."

Eraserhead merely grunts, adjusting his grip on the criminal. "If you're feeling all right, you should head home; it's getting late. In the morning you can head over to the police station to make a statement. Tell them Eraserhead sent you; they'll know what to do." With that, he spins on his heel and begins to walk away.

He's speaking before the words have even formulated in his mind. "Wait!" His hand is outstretched, eyes wide and borderline frantic. He's imagined having this conversation a hundred different ways, but now that there's actually a chance for it to play out, the words elude him. He has no idea what to say, but he can't waste this opportunity, he _can't_. He'll never get another chance like this, and he has to know, has to ask —

 _Criminal. Freak._

 _Hero? Gimme a break._

 _It's only a matter of time before one of us puts you in prison._

 _Get away, you creep!_

"What?" asks a bored voice.

He breathes deeply and grits his teeth and pushes away all the voices in his head. His fists tremble at his sides. "I'm not quirkless," he says to Eraserhead's feet, "but it's true my quirk isn't suited for fighting. It's not flashy or impressive, either, and most people, they're afraid of what I can do with it." It's like a dam has opened, and everything is pouring out whether he wants it to or not. "All I want to do is help," — god, is that what his voice sounds like?— "it's all I've ever wanted to do. That being said," he wrenches his gaze up to meet Eraserhead's eyes — when did he turn around? — "that being said, is it pointless for someone like me to try to be a hero?"

A heavy silence settles between them, and he is suddenly hyper aware of how late it is, how tired the man must be, how childish he sounds. It's the end of the day, and Eraserhead is a busy underground hero, and Hitoshi is just a schoolkid out too late after dark. Heat rises to his cheeks, and his eyes sting. He refuses to look away.

Eraserhead just sighs and looks for all the world like he'd rather be anywhere but here. Minutes pass, and just when Hitoshi is sure he'll leave without an answer, he speaks. "I'm not going to lie to you; having a quirk, especially a combat-oriented one, is extremely useful in heroics. Pros risk their lives every day fighting villains and handling disasters, and the ones with physical quirks have a huge advantage." He lifts his goggles to rub at his eyes. "That being said, any decent hero knows you can't rely on your quirk to get yourself or anyone else out of a pinch every time. There's more to it than that." Snapping his goggles back onto his eyes, Eraserhead turns around and continues walking. "I don't know what you see in my opinion, but for what it's worth, I don't think you've got zero potential. I don't know your situation, though. If you're serious about becoming a hero, you'll need to work hard starting now. If your quirk doesn't seem useful, _make_ it useful. Figure out what you can do with it. Be creative." He pauses mid-step, and looks back over his shoulder. "Most of all, though," he says, "be realistic. Know your limits. Chasing baseless dreams is a waste of time." With that, Eraserhead takes off, ribbons of silvery fabric swinging him up until he's leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Hitoshi watches until he's out of sight, then turns around to collect his fallen groceries.

 _I don't think you've got zero potential._ The phrase echoes in his head on repeat, along with _you did well_ and _there's more to it than that_ , and no matter what he does, he can't get this stupid grin off his face. He doesn't even want to. _You did well._ It's like all the doubts he ever had have melted away, any bitterness or shame or sorrow about the hand he's been dealt evaporating like mist in the sun. It's amazing, really, how a single conversation can make a lifetime's worth of suspicion and distrust feel so trivial.

 _I'll get trained_ , he thinks fiercely, shoving one last potato into his bag. _I'll learn to fight, I swear I will, and I'll do it without the help of a quirk. Just you wait, I'll be the greatest hero anyone has ever seen!_

For the first time in what feels like ages, he heads home with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.

* * *

His mom is asleep by the time he gets home, so he puts the groceries away and heads to his room. After brushing his teeth and changing into his pajamas, he finds himself on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. He knows he should at least send a text after something so big, but he has no idea what to say. This has been the second-most surreal, emotionally taxing night of his night; there's no way he can type out the whole story and still do it justice.

His mind is made up when his mouth parts in a yawn that nearly cracks his jaw. Sending off a short message, Hitoshi places his phone on the bedside table and crawls under his covers, pulling them up to his chin. _Thank god it's the weekend_ , he thinks, and a minute later he's dead to the world.

Beside him, his phone buzzes, casting a faint bluish glow in the darkness of his room.

 _ **Midoriya**_ _: sure, sunday afternoon works fine with me!_

 _ **Midoriya**_ _: where did u wnat to meet up?_

 _ **Midoriya**_ _: *want_

 _ **Midoriya**_ _: oh wow, i didn't realize how late it was, sorry!_

 _ **Midoriya**_ _: (hope u can catch up on some sleep this weekend. Goodnight!)_

* * *

A/N: For once I actually do have specific ideas about where I want to go with this, but since this is my first time writing for these characters, how'd I do? Any feedback is hugely, hugely appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"You met _Eraserhead_?!" Midoriya nearly shouts, practically vaulting himself over the table in his excitement.

"Not so loud!" he hisses. They're at a tiny café somewhere between Midoriya's place and his, tucked away in an empty corner. Midoriya's sandwich lies forgotten on its small porcelain plate, while his own coffee cools in his hands, neglected.

"Sorry," whispers Midoriya, shrinking back into his seat. He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "But that's so cool! I can't believe you met him in person! What did he say? Did you get to ask him about his quirk? Or wait, oh my god, did you get to show him yours? What did he say about it? Does he have any ideas about what we should do? Man, this is _so cool_ , I'm so happy for you! Hey, did you get to ask if he really —"

"Uh —"

"— I mean, most people say it's true, but if you weigh the evidence against it —"

"Midoriya."

"— then again, if you take into account the nature of his quirk, I suppose it could make sense that —"

" _Midoriya_."

"— that he — what?" Midoriya breaks off, blinking at his surroundings as if he's noticing them for the first time. The intensely focused, calculating look on his face falls away into something acutely embarrassed, and he rubs his reddening neck, chuckling nervously. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

The corners of his mouth lift of their own accord; Midoriya's happiness is infectious. "It's all good," he says, waving his hand dismissively. "And no, I didn't really get to ask him any of that, but I did manage to ask him about . . . about being a hero." It's not quite the entire truth, but the rest feels almost too . . . _visceral_ to share. Two nights ago was the first time he'd laid his soul out so openly to anyone, Midoriya included. He isn't keen on repeating the experience.

It doesn't matter, though, because Midoriya's eyes light up again, and he sits up enthusiastically. "Yeah? What did he say?"

Hitoshi takes a sip of his coffee as he searches for the words. "Mostly what you'd expect from a pro-hero like him, I guess. Hero work is dangerous, obviously, and he admitted people with stronger and flashier quirks are way more favored, but . . . but he also said it's not impossible. He said the quirk doesn't make the hero." He grins, then, a broad, full-toothed grin that matches Midoriya's. "Granted, he also said it would be a hell of a lot of work, and I need to figure out the limits of my quirk and be realistic about my expectations or whatever, but that's a given. As for the second part, I think we're covering that pretty well."

Midoriya leans back in his chair, sighing in amazement with a look of star-struck awe in his eyes. "Man, that's so cool," he repeats reverently. "I wish I could have been there."

Absently, Hitoshi's hand comes up to his throat. "It's probably best you weren't." The skin around his neck is now a mottled, kaleidoscopic mess of small blue-and-purple circles and faint scratch marks, only partially hidden by the collar of his shirt. It hadn't looked nearly as bad when he'd gotten home that night, just a bit swollen and red, but his mother had nearly screamed the whole neighborhood awake when she came to wake him up the next afternoon, immediately hauling him to the doctor. After a rather uneventful appointment and a promise to return immediately if his throat got worse or any new symptoms arose, he finally made his way to the police station.

Eraserhead, as it turned out, had already submitted a report, but the officers were glad to take down any extra detail he was able to provide, and after some well wishes, they sent him on his way. His mother, loathe to let him stray from her side after what even _he_ had to admit could have been his last day alive, took him to the shopping district to run some errands and pester him (fruitlessly) to wear more colorful clothes.

This afternoon is the first time he's been on his own since the incidence. He had considered wearing the new scarf his mother bought him yesterday to avoid any unwanted questions, but the weather hasn't been cold enough to warrant one for a while, and it's not like anyone talks to him, anyway. People can think what they like, as far as he's concerned. He nearly died for these bruises, so he might as well show them off. All the better if it scares off the ruder folk.

"Oh, yeah, I guess so." Midoriya's quiet voice draws him back to the present, eyes falling to Hitoshi's neck. "If even you couldn't get away, I would have been completely useless. Sorry."

Hitoshi smacks himself internally. _Shoot me in the_ fucking _mouth. Goddamn idiot_. That wasn't at all the point he was trying to make, but of course it's the first thing Midoriya thinks of. Though his own quirk is often more trouble than it's worth, it's got nothing on how much misery being quirkless has brought Midoriya. He knows there are pieces missing, key details that Midoriya skirts around or just flat-out doesn't tell him, but he's gathered enough from their conversations over the years to surmise that feeling useless and unnecessary is a significant part of the package. But how is he supposed to explain that he's just glad it was him and not Midoriya? That the idea that it could have been Midoriya getting the life squeezed out of him in some dark alleyway — could still be Midoriya, some day — is enough to make his stomach churn and his mouth go dry? But worrying about his safety, coddling him and babying him just because he doesn't have a big, strong quirk — he hates it when people act like that towards him, almost as much as he hates the whispers that follow him around school, the side-eyed stares and abrupt silences that seem to accompany him everywhere. He would be the biggest hypocrite in the world if he did the same to Midoriya.

So he grits his teeth and swallows down the words wants to say, words that are too honest and too vulnerable for a casual Sunday lunch in a sunlit café. "Nothing to be sorry about, it was my stupid own fault," he says instead, shrugging with a nonchalance he doesn't feel. "I met that villain earlier the same day, actually, on my way to school. They were mugging this old guy, I think, or beating him up. It didn't look good, whatever it was."

The outrage in Midoriya's expression matches his own from two days ago. "That's horrible!" he exclaims. "What did you do?"

Given the subject matter, it would be in poor taste to smile right now, but Hitoshi finds himself wanting to do just that. Midoriya is probably the only person in the world who would assume Hitoshi took action instead of turning a blind eye — or worse, joining in — and he takes a brief moment to appreciate the fact he somehow tricked the universe into getting Midoriya to be his friend. "I, uh, I threw a rock at their face, you know, as one does —"

"Of course," agrees Midoriya, nodding sagely.

"— and I told the old man to run. We got away and called the cops, but they'd already gotten away by then, so it was pretty much useless. Then, because I have the best luck in the world, the same villain jumps me when I'm doing groceries later, and because I am a complete dumbass, I throw _another_ rock at them, which _of course_ hits them right in the throat because why the fuck _not_ , so instead of provoking them into talking like I meant to, I completely ruined any chance I had at winning that fight." Evidently, the frustration from that night has yet to run its course, because he's breathing heavily and glaring at Midoriya's sandwich as though it's the reason he fucked up so astronomically. "Didn't even manage to run away," he mutters. Then he shakes his head, forcing the bitter thoughts out of his mind. "You would have been smarter about it, I'm sure." He meets Midoriya's wide eyes with an even stare. "Having a quirk didn't help me at all. You're good at analyzing situations and dealing with problems as they come, and I bet your judgement would be great in a fight. At the very least, I think you and I together could have taken them easily." This coffee is way too sweet, he notes, taking another sip. "Still more glad you weren't there, though."

Midoriya looks like a tomato about to catch fire, flustered and jittery and running his hand through his hair. His eyes are flick to Hitoshi's face and away again. "Ha, that's — th-that's not — I'm not — I mean, that's very kind of you to say, but — but I'm not — I don't think I could have done anything better —"

"I do."

Somehow, Midoriya flushes even brighter. "If-if you say so." Searching for something to do, he finally starts on his sandwich, while Hitoshi hides his smile in his coffee cup.

It's almost funny how easy it is to fluster Midoriya. More often than not, the barest hint of a compliment turns the boy into a stammering, red-faced mess. It's kind of endearing — and more than a little bit depressing, if he thinks too long on it. So he stops.

"Oh, right." He snaps his fingers as remembers what he wanted to discuss. "Hey, Midoriya, can I test something? Don't respond, just nod or shake your head." Midoriya, cheeks bulging with sandwich, can't do anything but nod anyway.

"Midoriya," he continues, "put down your sandwich."

Midoriya looks at him, puzzled, before swallowing and laying the half-eaten sandwich down on his plate.

Hitoshi stares. "No way," he breathes, " _no way_. That actually worked?"

Midoriya blinks at him, then at the sandwich. "Oh, wait, was that . . . was that the test? Oh no, I'm so sorry! I thought you just wanted me to put my sandwich down for some reason; I had no idea that was part of the test!"

"Oh." Hitoshi deflates. "So it didn't work? You didn't feel like I was making you do it?"

Midoriya scratches his head. "Well . . . no, not really. Sorry, Shinsou."

"What are _you_ apologizing for?" he says sullenly. "I'm the idiot who actually thought he was making progress."

"Aw, no, come on! We've made a lot of progress!"

Hitoshi ignores Midoriya's earnest gaze in favor of staring moodily at his coffee. "Like what."

"Like . . . oh, remember last month? We tried to see if you could make me jump any higher than I could on my own, and it didn't work. We learned you can't make people do things beyond their physical limitations. That's progress, right?"

"If eliminating possibilities counts as progress, sure."

"Er, w-well — oh yeah! Before that, we tested the questions-versus-statements hypothesis and figured out it's easier for you to use your quirk when you start with a question since it lets the other person's guard down. Remember?"

"Whoop-de-doo," he grumbles, swirling his coffee in his hands. "They still have to _respond_. I need to figure out a way to get rid of that necessity, or at least work around it."

Recognizing defeat, Midoriya sighs, returning to his sandwich. "We'll figure it out somehow," he insists. "We're still trying for U.A. after all, aren't we? If we make it in, I'm sure there'll be loads of people who can help you figure out your quirk!"

"Yeah, I guess so." Hitoshi takes another sip from his coffee. "Oh yeah, that reminds me — I was looking at their website earlier this weekend. There isn't much information on there aside from a brief history and general description of their heroics program, but they listed a few others that might be a good way to get our foot in the door."

"Oh, yeah, I saw that too! It's kind of disappointing they don't have more detail on the what the school is like, or, well, _anything_ about the entrance exam, but I guess that's to be expected for an elite institution like U.A. They did have a few links outlining their other courses, though, like Business and Management, Support, and General Education."

Hitoshi nods, draining the last of his coffee. "About that. I was thinking it would be a better idea to apply to the general department instead."

"What? Why?" Midoriya finishes off his sandwich and pushes his plate to the side. "I thought we were aiming for heroics."

"We are, but I've been thinking about what Eraserhead said, and he's right. We've got to be realistic. People like you and me will have a major disadvantage trying to get into a school like U.A. without any practice, so I think it would be best to focus on actually getting a spot in U.A. first. Once we do that, we can worry about transferring."

Frowning, Midoriya props an elbow on the table, drumming his fingers against his chin. "I mean, I see what you're saying, but . . ."

"But what?"

"It's just . . . I mean, we're already so behind. Can we really afford to wait even longer?"

"Midoriya," he says, laying his arms flat across the table. "You're overcomplicating things. All we have to do right now is get in. We can worry about things like the hero course once we're there." He claps his hands on the table before rising from his chair. "One thing at a time, Midoriya."

Following his cue, Midoriya gets up from his seat and pushes it in, stacking their plates and cups to leave them ready for their server. Calling out a thank-you on their way out the door, the pair of them exit the café and begin heading down the street. It's fairly quiet now, with only the occasional car and light chatter from the people around them filling the silence. It's not until they reach the intersection that Hitoshi notices all the muttering is directed at him.

His arm twitches at his side, longing to tug his collar higher, but he stifles the instinct. "Got a problem?" he calls instead, lifting his chin defiantly. The movement makes his neck ache, but it's worth it to see the rude couple staring at him turn away self-consciously. He blows a drooping tuft of hair away from his face, shoving his hands in his pocket. "Thought so," he mutters under his breath.

"Shinsou." A tug on his sleeve catches his attention, and he turns his head to see Midoriya looking at him, eyebrows pinched with concern. People begin swarming around them as the walk signal changes. "Be careful on your way your way home, okay?"

"Ha. Sure."

"I mean it. And–and don't listen to anybody else. They don't know what they're talking about. I think what you did was really brave."

". . . Sure."

A small smile on his face, Midoriya straightens out his jacket and bumps his shoulder against Hitoshi's. "Text me when you get home, okay?" Nodding absently, he watches as Midoriya heads for the crosswalk, only just making it to the other side before the signal changes back. From across the street, Midoriya waves at him. "See you later!"

Hitoshi raises his own hand in response. "See you." He waits until Midoriya disappears around the corner, then begins the slow journey back to his apartment. The sound of traffic and pedestrians blends into the background as he ambles his way home, each step heavier than the last. Before he knows it, he's staring at his front door, key in hand.

"I'm home," he announces as he opens the door. Removing his shoes, he hangs his jacket up next to his uniform and heads into the apartment proper. His mother is seated at the table, glowering at the notepad in front of her and twirling a pen between her fingers. She looks up briefly to wave at him, phone tucked between her cheek and her shoulder, before returning to what seems to be a heated conversation with the person on the other the line. With nothing else to do, he gulps down a glass of water in the kitchen and heads to his room, closing the door behind him.

There's still a good while before sunset, but Hitoshi flops onto his bed anyway, sinking his face into his pillow. He hasn't even been awake ten hours and he's already tired. Sighing, he rolls onto his side and shuts his eyes, focusing on nothing but the heat of the blanket under his feet, the sound of leaves rustling in the wind outside. It's not enough to distract him from the dread pooling in his gut, weighing him down like sandbags tied to his limbs.

School tomorrow is sure to be a fucking blast.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I know this is a really slow chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Next time we'll start heading into canon events, so look forward to that! And even though I'm sort of really bad at responding, I do take your feedback into account, and it's really encouraging, so I'd love it if you'd let me know what you think of this chapter! Thank you for your patience, and I'll see you next time!


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